


a thousand fingers in her hair

by PersephoneHemingway



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Brother-Sister Relationships, Drug Abuse, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Holmescest if you squint - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Incest, Light Petting, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pining, Possessive Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Rule 63, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Two Shot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, or if you just have eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-12-29 14:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneHemingway/pseuds/PersephoneHemingway
Summary: in which mycroft bails sherlock out of a drug den, helps her home, and washes her hair.





	1. warm bath

Mycroft exited his black car, umbrella hitting the ground first, nodding to Lestrade as he stood in the doorway. They shared a head shake and a solemn look before Lestrade waved Mycroft in.

Lestrade left with a few arrests and the rest of Scotland Yard. He was used to this by now.

The stench hit him first, almost a physical force to be dealt with in the house. The contrast between the trash that cluttered the floor and the flawless shoes that kicked it all out of the way was astounding. It took a staircase, a hallway, and several peeks into equally disheveled side rooms before he found his baby sister curled up and shivering on a filthy mattress tucked into a corner.

"Sherlock."

Her shivering stilled and her spine went rigid for just a moment, clearly recognizing the voice but choosing to ignore it. She balled up a little tighter and squeezed her eyes tight, presumably wishing it could've been anyone else who found her—but she knew it was going to be Mycroft. It was always Mycroft. She _wanted _it to be Mycroft.

Somewhere deep inside, she worried that one day he'd send one of his assistants to pick her up instead. That's when she'd know she'd gone too far. She was so afraid of losing him. She absolutely could not show it.

"Sherlock, get up. We're going home."

She had no intention of removing herself from the mattress 

Mycroft had to crouch down and physically unfold Sherlock to get her to pay attention. He didn't know if she was being impudent, or if she was just too out of it to know what was going on.

"Open your eyes." 

He turned her onto her side to face him and held her chin between his thumb and forefinger to get a good look at her pupils. She looked lucid and was blinking at him with something close to remorse.

"Sherlock please, let's get you home."

"Wh-where do you mean?" Her voice was a trembling rasp. She likely hadn't spoken in days, and her throat sounded dry enough to crack.

"I have some water for you in the car; get up Sherlock."

"I- My, I don't think I can..." She was so soft-spoken. She looked away. She looked ashamed.

He sighed. "It's alright, little sister, I can help." _I'll always help. I won't ever leave you, sweet girl._

Mycroft wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist before pulling her into a sitting position, and eventually all the way to her feet. Her arm was slung over his shoulders and she was leaning on him heavily. She was gasping and her legs were shaking, feet at odd angles. Mycroft was having trouble showing his disapproval when all he wanted to show was his concern.

"The stairs, Sherlock, can you make it or do I need to carry you?"

"I- I can do it myself..." Even Sherlock didn't believe Sherlock.

"Yes, alright." Mycroft swept Sherlock's legs out from under her and carried her down the steps bridal style. She didn't seem to have the energy to protest, though she did frown at him. She fisted a hand into his dress shirt and leaned her head in for comfort anyway.

Her eyes flickered closed.

"Thank you, Mycroft..."

"Don't thank me yet."

&

Tucked into the backseat of the infamous black car, Mycroft took Sherlock’s wrists in his hands and turned her forearms up to inspect the track marks in the creases of her elbows.

"Oh Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself?"

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a grumble and a whimper. Mycroft understood.

"You're a mess, Sherlock."

"I know." Soft and sad.

"Don't say that as if it makes me love you any less."

"But don't you?"

"Love you?" He gives her a pointed look. "With all my heart, Sherlock. Nothing you do will sway me." He lifts a finger to stop her expected remark. "But don't push it."

&

Sherlock napped for the rest of the ride to Mycroft’s.

"Come on, Sher."

"Carry?" Her hands were buried in his suit as she asked, lips touched softly to his neck.

Mycroft nodded and hummed so Sherlock could feel, then he gathered her up into his arms.

Over the threshold and into the sitting room, Mycroft placed Sherlock in the tuck of a leather couch and signaled his intention to retrieve something from another room. Sherlock answered with a soggy nod before curling her legs up and tucking her chin between her knees.

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft was back with a soft navy blanket to toss over his sister’s shoulders. It swallowed her as she cocooned herself in it.

“Come on, Sher. Up.”

She whined and tightened her cocoon.

“Up _now_, Sherlock.”

She stuck her lip out and trailed behind her brother past the half-bath into the downstairs guest bathroom—there was a claw-foot tub, of course.

Mycroft sat her down on the porcelain toilet lid to wait.

"Shh, just sit here for a bit while I get the water ready, okay?"

Sherlock nodded numbly, eyes to the floor, her arms still clutched in the blanket wrapped around her body. She looked so small. He opened the faucet.

Mycroft removed his suit jacket before he kneeled down over the side of the tub to check the water temperature. Once satisfied, he dropped the plug and chain and let the tub fill about a third before he pulled the faucet stopper that directed the water to spray out of the showerhead. The ambient noise of the rushing water had Sherlock slipping back into her head. She blinked.

Mycroft’s hands tugged at her wrists.

"Alright sweet girl, come on, let's get you in the bath, shall we?"

She was carefully convinced across the room to the tub. She made a noise of protest when Mycroft plucked away the blanket and eased her under the water for warmth. 

"Can you get your clothes off for me, Sherlock?"

She nodded and pulled weakly at wet fabric, eventually dragging her shirt upside down over her head and peeling the long sleeves from her arms. She flung the shirt sopping to the back of the tub.

Her hair stuck to her face as she bent down to remove her sweats.

"No bra, Sher? So improper."

"Tell me why I'd need a bra in a drug den high as a kite?" She tripped getting one leg out of her pants and pulled her panties off right after. "If I cared about being proper I probably wouldn't be doing this."

"And why _are_ you doing this, Sherlock?"

She said nothing.

"Why waste your gifts?"

"Gifts, hm? Thought I was the slow one." 

Mycroft sighed and pulled out a few plastic bottles.

"I hope you don't mind my shampoo. It's nothing like your usual citrus and wild berries."

"That's okay. Means I'll smell like you. You always smell so nice, My." She sighed, as if blurry from a dream she didn't want to wake from.

Something possessive stirred in Mycroft, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"That's right, sweet girl... you'll smell like me..."

She was bathed in scents of cedar, mint, and snow.

Mycroft was so gentle with her like this—it almost hurt her heart to keep misbehaving for it.

But she couldn't bear to give up big brother's attention.

If she wasn't in trouble, he had no reason to be around—and she really wanted him around.

More.

(And maybe even because he wanted to be?)

He threaded his fingers between her wet curls and pet her into complacency. He lathered and rinsed many more times than necessary—he knew how it soothed her.

Mycroft shut the water off and let Sherlock soak as he began to braid her hair.

His knees were aching, and his dress shirt was dripping, but for his sister, it was worth it.

The rhythm of the weave brought Mycroft back to his thoughts, upset with how Sherlock handled her distress.

“Why, Sherlock?”

She was quiet and still, arms readjusting around her knees.

He tugged at the strands a little harder than he had been, firm with his hands as he was with his words. His pulls felt like pinches by the time he’d reached her tips and gathered them with a baby scrunchie.

“Sherlock. Why?”

She relented with a murmur, mouth muffled into the hands she pressed against her knees.

“…_You’d never come and see me otherwise…”_

Mycroft stilled.

“_Sherlock_.” He’d never spoken her name with more feeling than in that moment.

“_I love you, Mycroft…” _She didn’t voice it, but she moved her lips—and even with her back to him, Mycroft heard. He brought his hands down on her shoulders and held her close to his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head and sighed.


	2. cold shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's cyclical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one ever accused me of being a polished writer.

&

She sat under her showerhead, curled up as icewater rained down upon her.

She was ever known for being dramatic.

Somehow she liked to think Mycroft really did know her every move; that he'd magically appear if she made bad choices or harmed herself—if she sat shivering in a bathtub filling with cold water.

If she tugged at her wet, tangled curls and pretended he was there for her.

If she sulked and wallowed and frowned, and didn't say a word.

She expected him to know—but as much as he'd like everyone to believe, he didn't always know.

But she blamed him for not knowing anyway.

She pushed it, liked to see how far she could go before he'd show up saying he cared.

But she usually had to go a little further now, since Mycroft was on to government manipulation and wasn't used to seeing Sherlock waking bleary in front of the coffeemaker midmorning anymore.

They weren't so together anymore.

She’d been getting worse about it lately—getting caught up in her own schemes and letting it all fall apart around her, see if he’d come running.

She didn't want to disappoint him. Not really.

But despite her watery confessions in her brother’s tub, she didn't see any more of him than before—and it was killing her.

She didn’t know how to ask him for attention without sounding pathetic—so every time she sobered up, she got high so he’d find her again.

He wouldn’t look for her otherwise.

He wouldn’t want to be with someone so behind him.

She couldn’t compare—not a goldfish, but a salmon, maybe?

Still nothing to a barracuda.

&

Honestly, she was still coming down off a 7-hour high.

She paced the curb outside of Whitehall, throwing her arms out and pretending like it was a balancing beam.

She counted about 34 repeats before Mycroft came outside, exasperated.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Experiment," she mumbled and kept watching her feet tap one in front of the other.

Mycroft sighed.

"Come now, we can get something to eat."

"Not hungry,"

"Don't be difficult."

"Where's your umbrella?"

Mycroft looked down to his hand and was surprised to not see an umbrella in it.

"Shouldn't you get it before we go?"

"Sherlock,"

"I can wait."

Sherlock turned away from him and stood still until Mycroft went back for his umbrella.

She walked to the rail above the water, looking down over it.

Mycroft walked up behind her in time.

"My?"

"Yes, sister mine?"

"Why don't you want me?"

"I- Sherlock- This isn’t-"

"Tell me? Can you just tell me? Please?"

Mycroft again tried and failed to speak.

"I- I need to know, My. I- what am I doing wrong? Why am I wrong? I'm, slow- I don't get it, I-"

"Sherlock—"

“Just tell me how I can be enough, and I’ll try- I-I’ll try_ so_ hard, My..”

"Hush now, Sher," Mycroft looked either way down the street past Sherlock's shoulders. "Come with me, would you?"

&

Mycroft ended up fully clothed under a showerhead spraying lukewarm water while petting Sherlock in his lap. She was dropping hard and nearly incoherent, but somehow managed to convince big brother into the water with her—_It’ll feel so nice on our skin, My…_

His hand was comforting and careful with her even as his mind ran fast: _What was he supposed to do? Give in to her? Did he ever really want anything else?_

Sherlock was in a fugue, and Mycroft wanted more than anything to pull her out, to make it better— _(to be hers)_.

But could he, really? Or was his indulgence the problem? Was _he_ the problem?

He braided her hair into two tight French ropes that slithered over her shoulders and dampened the pillowcases.

He held her, and they slept.


End file.
